Showing posts with label erikarobin. Show all posts
Showing posts with label erikarobin. Show all posts

Saturday, July 28, 2012

Lookit! More free stuff!

That last giveaway was too much fun and so easy to do that I decided to host another before I open my Storenvy shop.  


This time it's a pair of glass, beaded earrings in a really lovely plum color.  This is one of my favorite pairs, actually, so I made two.  One for me and one for the giveaway.  They really catch the light, don't they?  

So, if you think they're as totally bitchin' as I do, enter to win!






a Rafflecopter giveaway





Good luck!

ETA:  Congratulations to Laura!   Thank you for entering.  I hope you enjoy your new earrings.  :)
 

Monday, June 25, 2012

Marvelous Thrift Store Finds and Leg Amputation.



On Saturday, I visited Goodwill.  I told myself I was only going in to look.  Just for a second.  (That's all it takes, isn't it?) I don't need a cart.  If I get a cart, that'll make me put stuff in it and then I'll buy that stuff and then we'll have too much stuff again and need to get rid of that stuff.  The circle is vicious.
Nope, I'm just going to look.

Riiiiiiight.

Now, I have to tell you that I've planned to buy new stools for my kitchen for a while now and hadn't yet found a set I absolutely had to have...until Saturday.  Because Saturday I found these.

Ignore the peeling vinyl, I'm going to re-cover them.
The best part?
$3.38!  Each!!

At that price, you'd better believe I trotted up to the front of the store, grabbed myself a cart and shoved those suckers in it faster than a ...faster than...faster than something already fast performing a difficult task IMPRESSIVELY fast.
Those stools were MINE.  I staked my claim. After giving me a bit of trouble, I finally convinced the bar stools that they needed to come home with me and they fit into the cart obligingly.   This is important.  If you put something in your cart, that's like writing your name all over your school supplies or licking the last piece of pizza.  It says "Mine".  And no one else will get their grabby Saturday-thrift store mitts on them.  Unless they want to tangle.  *threatening face*



I was pretty stoked about this stool purchase.  Until.  Until I found something even better!  An air hockey table for only forty bucks!  FORTY!  I whipped out my cell phone and sent Sugar Daddy a text telling him of our incredible good fortune.

"Rejoice!  I have found the air hockey table of our dreams!"

I imagined our days filled with the soft hum of the table and the clickiety-clackity-smack of the puck as we battle for a tiny plastic replica of the Stanley Cup.  

"Basement or garage, which do you think it'll fit in?"

He sent back, "Um...no."

WHAT?!   Are you kidding me?  This is the end-all-be-all of family entertainment devices!  We NEED THIS.

"Aw, why not?  It's only $40.  C'mon, man.  I WANT IT!"

As Miss Madison will recognize, he sent back the same message we send to our oldest daughter when she tries to push the envelope: "The answer is no.  This will be the last text about this.  Further texts will result in consequences."

Now, it's true that we really don't have much room for an air hockey table anyway, and his idle threat had me giggling in the middle of the store, but I couldn't very well respond to Sugar Daddy with anything supporting his logic, so I instead sent:

"*pfft*  Dude. That's whack."

Whatever.

I got the stools.


And these are GREAT bar stools! 

Sadly, once I got them home I remembered that there is a difference between "bar stool" and "counter stool".  That difference is about 4 inches.  My counter is simply too short for their awesomeness. 

But wait!  I have a dad.  My dad has major power tools.  I'm very hopeful that the combination of my dad and the major power tools will be just the ticket to taking them down a notch...or four. 




             ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Edited to add:  I sent my father a text asking if he'd be willing to cut four inches off 8 legs...belonging to no one he knew, and if so, when would be a good time. 
"Now."  He sent back.

Seriously?  Sweet!

I hurried over to my folks' house where we performed partial amputations on the bar stools with a table saw...and laughed while we did it with sickening glee.   Hobbled, they now look like this:


And they fit perfectly under the counter. 


I took the severed legs home with me.  If the stools give me any more grief I can always flaunt them with a menacing look that says, "There's more where this came from."
 



Now that I think of it, I might use them in my next giveaway.

  


If this made you laugh, will you share it with a friend?






Friday, May 18, 2012

Disturbing Adventures in Slumbertown or "Why I killed Alex P. Keaton"


Last night I was under attack.  Zombies came after me in my sleep!

It seems that I was back in my high school days and there was an assembly in the auditorium, which we all know is probably one of the worst places to be in the event of a zombie attack. Everyone knows that when the zombie uprising occurs, you will want to avoid large social gathering places to increase your chances of survival.  True, I wasn’t trapped in the mall, but this did not bode well.

When I became aware of the looming presence of the brain-eating living dead, I realized I needed a weapon, but where to find such a one that could handle this onslaught?  The Props Closet!   I knew there would be an array of swords and sharp, pointy things left over from a recent production of Camelot, sitting ripe for the picking.  Only a Master Thespian, such as I would have remembered they had perfect zombie protection at their disposal.

I pushed aside a canvas flat and found the box I sought.  I chose my weapon quickly, but carefully, remembering that when it comes to zombies, a machete is very handy, and ended up grabbing what I felt was the closest thing.

Holed up in the props closet, armed with Big Ol’ Dream Knife, I braced myself, channeled my Inner Buffy, opened the door and in my strongest zombie-slaying voice shouted,

Bring it on!!”

Onward they came, these dream zombies made of random bits of my subconscious:
My best friend? *slash* Gone.  
The family dog? *slice* Dead.  
Alex P. Keaton (where the hell did he come from)? *swoosh* Severed.
Some guy with a head wound who may or may not have actually been zombified?  Sorry, dude. I can’t risk it. *zing* Dead.

I’ve got to give props to my weapon of choice.  Big Ol’ Dream Knife required very little upper arm strength from this particular heroine to prove effective against hordes of zombies (I’m not the strongest slayer on the block, you know).  It was amazing, slicing those nasty zombie heads clean off, like…well, like a light saber (to borrow from George’s dream).  Who wouldn’t love a knife like that?  Got a chicken you need quartered?  *slappity choppity*  Done!  Cleaning fish?  *bam* Off with their heads! 

Sadly, I learned that Big Ol’ Dream Knife had one fatal flaw.  It was selective.  Sure, it was able to cut through flesh and bone (ew ew ew ew! *shudder*) but it had noticeable trouble with fabric.  I was able to holster it in my belt loop and it didn’t cut one thread. 
The approaching turtleneck-clad zombies would be my undoing…

Aw, crap.

Thursday, April 19, 2012

The WTF Backpack - The Stuff Nightmares Are Made Of



This picture was linked on my Facebook page by a friend of mine (thanks, Bart), so I don't know what terrifically warped person created it, but I'd like to know who would invest their money in such a thing.  Okay, sure.  I'm a little warped too, and if I had the money, I'd probably buy one, but I couldn't justify that as being a school purchase for one of my girls.  

How do you market this as a functional backpack when it looks like it will eat anything you put inside?  I suppose you could direct it toward a group of parents who miss their children terribly when they're at school and want nothing more than to have them attached at the hip forever.  That might work.  I think this bag would stunt their developing independence in the click of a pincers.  

On the off-chance that the makers of this...whatever the hell it is need some help marketing it, I'm willing to help.  Here's my pitch:

Do your kids actually LIKE to go to school?  Are they annoyingly early for the bus, ready and waiting with teeth brushed and hair coiffed?  Do they wake in a chipper mood, chomping at the bit to do a little learning and leave you behind to sort socks and pine for their return?
Your lonely days will be a thing of the past when you get them the WTF Backpack.  Yes, the WTF Backpack will ensure that your precious little babies won't ever want to go to school again.  This nightmare inducing school bag will have your children resisting their education with both heels dug into the ground and their mouths agape in a large O of terror.  
Oh, holy hell!










"I can't do my homework."  

"Why not?" 

"Because it's in...my backpack."










The WTF Backpack.  So realistic, it'll scare the absolute piss out of you.







Would you buy a bag like this?

Tuesday, April 17, 2012

Are you SURE that's a vagina?

For those of you who are teaching your kids the generic "girls have a vagina" lesson, you ARE teaching them that the proper term for the entire outer package is vulva and not vagina, right? I mean, you know that the words are not synonymous, don't you?  
Just in case, let me give you a quick anatomy lesson. 

Vagina and vulva are not the same thing.  They are not interchangeable physiological terms.
The vagina is part of the inner workings, not the outer.


I asked this question on a social networking forum and got a variety of responses including this one:
"My child is too young to know the technical terms for her body parts." (Ignore the fact that the pet name we have created for her genitalia is four syllables long and she's already made up a song about it.)


And this one:
"Vulva is just a gross word."   (Vulva is not a gross word.  "MOIST" is a gross word.)  
  
And also this one: "It all means the same thing."
(To say that it's all the same thing is as inaccurate as saying that your hand is a finger and your finger is a hand and that's just plain silly.)


You know what this post needs?  Venn Diagrams!  (I know they look like crazy cartoon breasts.  Shut up.)
It's true that all rectangles are parallelograms, but not all parallelograms are rectangles.  
Likewise, all vulvae contain vaginas (or rather, the vaginal opening), but all vaginas don't contain the vulvae.



Yes, there is a difference and the difference is huge.  Vulva = clitoris, labia (2 sets) urethra, vaginal opening.  Vagina = the canal that leads from the vaginal opening to the cervix.   


Do you need another diagram?  Okay, here:  




So if you choose to shave your vulva, that's cool.  Get creative. Have fun with it.  However, if you choose to shave your vagina, it's not going to end well.  Don't use the good towels. 


Now, I know there will be someone who will get all worked up about this. Calm down. You can teach your kids whatever you want.  Don't sweat it because some stranger on the internet told you that it's the wrong word.   You're not breaking any law of child rearing.  No member of the Vulva Brigade will show up and ticket you for referring to your lady bits as your bajingo and hand you some reading material about the inaccurately named Vagina Monologues. I'm not going to take away your euphemisms.  Hell, euphemisms are fun!  Tell them it's a Harvey Wallbanger or a FlufferNutter if you like.   


I'm just saying that technically, it's incorrect.  


To recap:

The vulva is the correct term for the outside parts as a collective whole.

The vagina is the correct term for the "collective hole".  



What's your favorite euphemism for the VULVA?





  
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Wednesday, April 11, 2012

To The Obscene Pantomimist In The Car Behind Me

Dear Sir,

I know that you're in a bigger hurry than I am and I can see you in my rear-view mirror as you drum your fingers on the steering wheel and gesture emphatically at me to go ahead and make my turn.  I'd love to heed your request so you could stop waving your hands and making angry faces, but the light is red and I can read.  In case you can't, let me help you out.  That sign across from us says "No Turn On Red".

Stupid ass.

Friday, March 2, 2012

Help for Cat People - Simple solutions to your cat problems.

The Problem:  Kitteh wants closeness, but impedes blog writing by taking up too much room on the desk or sitting right on the keyboard. 

The Solution:  Zippered Sweatshirt Kitteh Sling. 


 Now, what do I do about this one?

Saturday, February 11, 2012

Before I became a mom, I never...

...answered the door with one breast in and one out of my bra.

...told a passerby at Target that I was on my way to return my crying child at the service desk.


...reminded a fellow parent just how much the overhead compartment on a plane can store.



...understood what was really meant by "extended breastfeeding"(please see also: Co-sleeping,  feeding around a corner, Longboobs McGee, I am not a taffy pull)


...ate food that had been on and/or in another person's face.

...watched Barney and Friends.

...feared that cartoon violence would be acted out in my living room.


...talked with another person's imaginary friends.
...worried that another person's imaginary friends would be a bad influence on my child. 
...scolded an imaginary friend.


...got mad at my husband for falling asleep before me.
...got mad at my husband for waking up AFTER me.
...got mad at my husband for sleeping more soundly than me.


...sounded SO MUCH like my mother.

...started a conversation about poop.
...joined a conversation about poop.
...one-upped a conversation about poop.


How has parenthood changed you?

Friday, February 10, 2012

Father Teaches Daughter Lesson About Facebook

Do you agree with this father's actions? 





What do you think his daughter really learned from this?

We're Getting Fish.

John bought a 29 gallon fish tank and stand during the holidays and chose Superbowl Sunday to set it up...in the office. So instead of having the Exercycle of Doom behind me in webcam pictures, you'll see a tank of iddle fishies...whenever we get them. Right now it's just filled with 29 gallons of tub water.
What he's got so far:  (L to R) Tropical Coral Thing, The Castle at Rohan and the Fires Of Mordor.
John is famous for starting this stuff and then getting frustrated halfway through it and cracking or breaking something. He's also great at using tools that are not meant for the task...like his fists.
Nevertheless, this is gonna be solely his thing (heh, see what I did there?).  I'm only here to figure out the electricity issues: How long an extension cord we'll need and where to plug it in. 
I'll also be in charge of reporting the deaths.  
I may get a clipboard.

Thursday, February 9, 2012

Woo-Hoo! Free stuff!!

Yesterday I won the lottery!  Okay, I didn't really, but it sure seemed like it.  I brought in the mail and discovered that my friends at Amsterdam Printing had sent me a new pen. I have a thing for pens anyway, but I have a serious thing for THEIR pens.  (I'd like to think it's become more of a relationship than just a thing now, but until I get that official Facebook notice I'll remain in Crazy Stalker Mode.) 

My pulse quickened when I saw their name on the shrink-wrapped envelope and felt by its weight that there was more inside than just a friendly little hello-please-buy-our-stuff-oh-and-here's-a-catalog thing.  

I opened it like a kid looking for the prize in a box of Cracker Jacks, and I mean the old school Cracker Jacks, not the new ones with a 2"x2" paper booklet that you have to be superbly skilled in the art of Origami to use.


Stupid shrink wrap.  Can't.  Open.  Fast enough!  
*squee*  
"There IS a pen in there!  Ooh, which one is it?!"

Now, the folks at Amsterdam know that I love their Manor Pen.  I got a sample of one once and somehow managed to break the dang-blasted thing in half.  I wrote them about this and, being the awesome people they are, they sent me a few new ones to replace the one I had apparently used so hard and so much in my fevered list-making frenzy that it cracked under the pressure.  


This new pen they sent was called the Entice Pen.  It's even been engraved with my first name (and my zip code for some reason). 
Hm, what?  Why yes, I DO have a picture:
Second from the left in "graphite" - smokin' hawt stylus!
  

I.  Love.  It.  
I'm totally cheating on my Manor Pen with this one, but...well...it's got my NAME on it, you know?  That's got to make it okay.  


I wonder if I could get the peeps at Amsterdam to tattoo Random Ninja on something...

Thursday, February 2, 2012

Does This Vagina Make My Van Look Hot?

Lately, I've been thinking a lot about truck testicles. 
Let me try that again.
Lately, I've been thinking a lot about blogging about truck testicles.

There's a father in the pick-up/drop-off queue at my girls' elementary school who has an enormous set of chrome-covered balls swinging from his bumper hitch.  I've seen some interesting car accessories in my time. Remember the car bra?  (What was that supposed to lift and/or separate, anyway?)  Recently, I've seen people put eyelashes on Volkswagon Beetles to make the headlights look like eyes.  Interesting, yes, but the truck nuts phenomenon got me wondering, so I started to do a bit of research on this latest (but far from greatest) fad in vehicular personification and I found a guy who makes them on Facebook.  Our conversation went pretty much like this:

Me: So...about those bumper hitch balls...just...WHY??

Ball Guy: Why not ?
Ball Guy: It is a novelty product, we sell them to make a profit. We need the income to pay our bills and cover payroll. Literally hundreds of people have jobs within our industry and dealer program, within the U.S. alone not to mention our dealers in many countries.

Me:  I'm trying to do a little research on this...do you also make a vulva design? 

Ball Guy: No, we get that and breasts request a lot, over the years, however it mostly asked by people who are ignorant of the connotation "he has balls" and what that means.

Me: I know what it means. I also know what the phrase "what a C***" means, but I've never seen one on a bumper hitch.
Me: I don't necessarily want to have a vadge on my van. I'm just saying it should be an equal opportunity thing. Don't you agree?  
 
Ball Guy:  Sure, so go google and search vulva and/or breasts on a truck, find the right company for you and buy and install them. I'm just saying we don't do them, just balls...

Me: No one makes them. Apparently it's not marketable to have a replica of your vulva suspended from the bumper. That's why I thought I'd ask you. Wouldn't you want your daughter to be able to express herself in the same way as any guy who wanted to tout his enormous set at unsuspecting motorists? Think of the children, man.

Ball Guy: So here is your opportunity, start your own company, do something for the children!
 
Me: But...now I'm left wondering if it would be better to make them customizable in different sizes, shapes and whatnot or just have one basic Chaka-Khan "I am every woman" sort of thing.  It can't be any more difficult for my children's classmates to unsee Soccer Mom's kitty swinging behind the van than it is for us to unsee the balls on their dad's truck, can it?


And with that...he left me hanging.   I went back a few days later to find that Ball Guy had deleted the entire conversation from his page.  When I asked why, he said that my last comment was "a little blue and out of line".  

BLUE and out of line?  Really?  Dude, you sell bumper nuts!


Where was I going with this?  Oh, right:
If one day you pull up behind a vulva on a Volvo you just might have me to thank for it.
Possible slogon:  Bumper Vagina.  Bumper vagina?!  I hardly know 'er vagin...ah, forget it.  Too easy.
Ball Dude has since stopped replying and I don't think we are on facebooking terms anymore, so I won't mention his name or even link you to his website.  I know you wanted to put a nice big fleshy set of danglers on your eyelash-clad, bra-wearing Volkswagon and call it The Dragster, but you're on your own with that, chief. 
Sorry. 

Tuesday, January 24, 2012

She did it again!

Our winter holidays started out as normally as they could have, considering who we are.  We had our annual dinner and gift exchange at the in-laws' after church on Christmas Eve, which is always a great time; dinner was wonderful, conversation was even better and there was wine.  Yay, MOSCATO!

It seems like every holiday, something happens that I simply MUST write about because...(because I'm an obsessive over-sharing maniac) because I'm a blogger.  Sharing the mundane stuff like this is my life, my passion. 

This year, Christmas was full of blog-worthy stuffs to relay to you, gentle reader.  Sadly, the majority of it was lost on Christmas morning because that is when tragedy struck.

I'm getting ahead of myself (again).


A Holiday On Hold
The girls each got a new pair of warm, fuzzy, stay-at-home-socks in their Christmas stockings from jolly old Saint Nicholas.  They love All Things Soft and Fluffy, so of course they put them on immediately.   This is important.  Trust me.

After the last present was opened, the plan was for the kids and The Man to clean up the mess from Unwrapaganza while I started a lovely Christmas breakfast for everyone. That plan was rudely interrupted when I heard Lily yell something that derailed our lazy Christmas morning and sent it careening off into a ditch:

"MOM!  SAM GOT A SPLINTER!!"

Sam ran through the dining room in the slippery wood-collecting-socks that evil bastard brought for her and when she skidded to a stop, yes indeed, Sam...got a splinter.  

If you are a regular reader of my family's tales, you will remember that this has happened before.  Many of you are already aware that I have a child who is a magnet for splinters and when she gets one, she doesn't mess around with the tiny stuff that can be gotten out with a simple tweezers or the aid of a needle.  No way, no how!  When Samantha does it, she goes all out - sliding across the hard-wood floors, yards at a stretch, to see just how much flooring she can strip off in one go.  "FIND ALL THE SPLINTERS!" she cries.  She also gets these enormous planks embedded so deeply and so securely into her skin that it requires medical attention to retrieve them.  THIS was one of those times. 

Yeah, that's not gonna cut it.
After last year's ordeal (which I will link again, because it's just that incredible), we knew not to waste any time waiting for an army of white corpuscles to stop what they were doing and meander over to the foreign body that had taken refuge in the sole of her foot, for she was likely to lose the entire appendage by the time they cooperated enough to force the splinter out.  It was time to get dressed and head to the Convenient Care Clinic.  *nodding*  No Post-Gift Exchange Nap for you, Johnny-Boy.  No waking up to the smell of maple bacon crisping in the oven.  Coats on, everybody!  Let's move out!

The Waiting is the hardest part

We got to the Convenient Care Clinic, checked Samantha in and began to wait.

And wait...


And wait...
Three bored children, two parents, one large plank of wood didn't make for a very merry Christmas.  At least we were all together...irritated, but together.



Soon...(what am I saying? Strike that...) After waiting roughly the same amount of time it takes to cook a 20 pound turkey, we were shown to a room where a nurse got the skinny on Sam's allergies (or lack thereof), and a brief run-down of how she came to have a hunk of petrified oak jammed inside her person.  When she had enough information, we were then told to follow her to the next room and you'll never guess what happened there!

Aw, you guessed it: more waiting.


So we snapped a picture of the adorable six-year-old's foot to kill some time:
*pffft* Well, that took all of thirty seconds.  What do we do now?

As if sensing my boredom...irritability...and general impatience that this was taking SO LONG, the more mobile members of Sam's entourage began to play a nifty little game called "TOUCH EVERYTHING!!!"  Fun stuff, that game.   It's guaranteed to make your mother go abso-fricking-lutely insane in a matter of minutes. 

Just when we were sure they had forgotten about us (I have no idea how that was possible, as we are noisy and were cordoned off from the rest of the office by only a curtain), in walked the doctor who would surely save Sam from the stabbing pain of Pinocchio Syndrome and us from the agonizing wait. 

He took one look at it and said, sounding much like Gary Cole in Office Space: "Mm...yeah, I think we're going to have to go ahead and, uh...numb that."  Well, gee, Bill, do you think so?  I mean, look at it.  There's nothing to grab on to.  Any fool can see that we're going to have to go in after it and one of us may not come out alive.  If you want to try that on a frightened six-year-old without Novocaine, be my guest.  Just use your Jedi mind trick and we'll be on our way.  Moron.

Instead of using The Force, we (Dr. Bill and I) opted to put a topical numbing agent on it so the needle wouldn't be as traumatizing to my six-year-old.  Add fifteen more minutes of waiting, this time with Mommy sporting a pair of purple surgical gloves to apply some jelly textured numb-making stuffs to Sam's foot with "gentle PRESSURE" (*sigh*  Poor Sam), follow that with Dr. Bill shooting Novocaine into the entry point, and we were ready to begin. ("BEGIN?!" WTH?!)   He made a few futile attempts to grab the splinter, but found he was unable to get a good grip on it with the smallest hemostat he had, so after all this time, Good Doctor Nimble Fingers couldn't get the splinter out and he sent us to the hospital emergency room.
Damn.  This rivaled last year's splinterectomy debacle in a big, sad way.

At the ER
I am happy to report that after another hour of waiting , an ultrasound on Samantha's foot, two near-fistfights between the Tired and the Hungry, and about a thousand mobile status updates to Facebook, Sam was once again, splinter free.   HALLELUJAH!  

Holy crap!
































By this time, we were an hour late for dinner at my mother's house, so we gathered up Sam, the splinter and the rest of our clan and headed for Nana and Poppa's house, stopping ever-so-briefly at home to grab the presents and the makings of my contribution to our meal (thank God I didn't have to make anything more complex than green bean casserole).

We'll call this next part "Splinter At Large"
When we finally got to my parents' house, Sam immediately wanted to show the splinter to her cousins.  Now, after the morning's ordeal, we didn't expect her to actually take the splinter OUT  to show it off and we sure as hell didn't expect the splinter to make a break for it, but that's what happened.  When she opened the container, it fell.   It fell near(?)...under(?)...IN(?)...the cushions of the couch.  It was lost.  Oh, damn.  That's at least a hundred dollar splinter (and probably more, as we have yet to receive the bill from the ER).  We wanted to keep it and put it in our shadow box of "Stuff that got stuck in our kids".  Shoot.  Now it's gone.  Bummer.

Was Lost But Now Am Found
I went to my parent's house the day after Christmas to have coffee and in a last-ditch effort, searched the couch cushions once more, to see if I could find that blasted splinter.  I picked up a cushion and clapped it once and the splinter fell onto the couch.
*THUD*
Me:  No. Freaking. Way.  I FOUND IT!  QUICK!  DAD, GET THE BOTTLE!  GET THE BOTTLE!  
My Father: Where is it?
Me:  It's still in my purse!
My Father:  Don't move!  I'm on it!

And so we wrangled that splinter into the bottle and closed it up tight. REALLY TIGHT.

That oughta hold it.




 Once again, the world is safe for Samantha's tender feet.  Sort of. 


We're getting carpet this spring.

Monday, January 16, 2012

Anatomy of an Argument...For Underachievers

John and I rarely fight, but when we do, this is pretty much what happens.

Him: "Oh, look! A CD on the floor. No case! That's real nice. That's the way to take care of things!" Me: "Here, hon. Why don't you take it and put it away?"
Him: "Well, I didn't leave it on the floor!"
Me: "Do you want to put it away or do you want to bitch about where it ended up because you didn't put it away in the first place?"
Him: "I want people to put things away where they belong."
Me: "Okay then. I'm not the only person who can do that. Here." *hands him CD, which he takes and drops down on the desk*
Me: "Asshole."
Him: "You're the asshole." *stomp stomp stomp* 
Wait three minutes...he returns.
Him: "Guess what temperature the thermostat is set at."
Me: "69."
Him: "Yup. 69 Degrees."
Me: "Awesome."
Him: "Sixty. Nine."
Me: "Yup."
Him: "Degrees."
What.  That's a serious argument, yo.  
 
Side note: He just came in to the bathroom while I was taking a shower, opened the curtain (I lipread, remember) and said..."Bass... *plays music on pretend guitar*...Bass... *pretends to catch Walter from On Golden Pond*...*shrugs shoulders*  Why??"
And when I looked at him like he had three heads, he hugged me THROUGH the shower curtain.  
He's ALL mine, ladies.  Mine.
 

Monday, January 9, 2012

The Year Grandma Stopped Loving You

During our Christmas Eve gift exchange, my sister-in-law pointed out the tag on her gift, saying: "To Jennie.  Mom and Dad".  No "Love, Mom and Dad?"  Really?  *quietly*  I used to be your favorite...

This caused our evening to take a most entertaining turn.  We were no longer so curious to find out what we'd been given, but much more intent to find out whether or not it was given "with love".  It became the mission of one and all to answer the question "Where's the love?" as we hungrily tore through the gifts from my mother and father-in-law to see how our cards were signed and find out whether or not we, too, were among The Beloved.

We used that one piece of hilarity to propel us through the rest of the night.

I'm happy to report that every one of the grandchildren got the coveted Golden Ticket of "Love, Grandma and Grandpa".

All adults in the room were gifted with a lukewarm "Mom and Dad".

This will make next year very interesting as it seems everyone's back in the running for Favorite.  It's so gonna be ME!

Saturday, January 7, 2012

40-Year-Olds Don't Lick The Chocolate Off The Dessert Plate...

It's my birthday.  Today I am 40 years old.

My mother took me out for the day.  There was shopping and wonderful food and lots of laughter and adult conversation.  There was an It's Not Every Day Your Baby Girl Turns 40 Celebratory Drink for my mom and one for the birthday girl.  We we had a lovely grown-up time...until dessert. 

It doesn't even matter what the actual name of the decadent slice of heaven set before me was, because whatever name they gave it would not have done it justice.  This was not just a sinfully rich and delicious confectionery.  This was a chocolate orgasm. 

We joked that it was so good, I could lick the chocolate off the plate.  BUT.  40-year-olds don't lick the chocolate off  dessert plates at the Olive Garden.  40-year-olds recycle.  40-year-olds keep an ongoing shopping list in their purse.  40-year-olds vote and do dishes and drive places and wear reading glasses and stuff.  40-year-olds can remember when Mtv used to play music.

Of course, THIS 40-year-old still snickers at the words "melon baller", "cotton balls" and "pussyfoot". 

So let me rephrase my initial statement:  today I am CHRONOLOGICALLY 40 years old.  Emotionally, I'm still 14.

I licked the plate.  I licked it good.

Thursday, December 22, 2011

Finding Jesus.

Last year, while driving my children to school, I passed a house with a plastic nativity scene in their front yard.  It was a very simple reproduction of the Holy Family with SuperStepDaddy Joseph and the Virgin Mary kneeling near the...

*blink*

...wait a minute... 

*blink, blink*

*jawdrop* 

It seems that, in this family's version of the Nativity Story, not only was there no room at the inn, but the manger was full as well.  Mary and Joseph knelt near the newborn child in a plastic, Ten Items or Fewer shopping basket. 

It struck me as an interesting decorative choice and I wondered what made them choose to put a half-naked representation of the Messiah in a plastic shopping basket.  

From a distance, the baby-doll that sat in the basket appeared to be a version of the Rub-A-Dub Dolly I had when I was a child.  Its limbs were straightened, which put him at an odd angle in the too-small basket.  Because this doll was not meant to bend, he looked like he'd frozen solid in the cold, which looked more than a little bit creepy.

Was he a place-holder for their real Baby Jesus or did the third part of the Holy Family get baby-napped years ago, forcing the family to search the bargain bin at the Dollar Store for a replacement?

Sadly, I feared we would never know.  On the way to take the girls to their last day of school before winter break, we noticed that Shopping Basket Jesus was missing.  The basket was there, but the Baby Jesus was not. 

We prayed for his safe return.

This year, our prayers were answered.  He is back, but Mary seems to be a little worse for wear.  Behold: 

Virgin Blows Her Top Over Missing Express Lane Messiah's Return


Rising To The Challenge - Another Holiday Photo

Didn't we just do this?  I can't believe it's been a year already. 


December rolls around and parents the world over start to dress up their children in itchy Christmas outfits they'll never wear again, to capture that cherished image of their little ones proving they're worth the presents Santa will surely bring as they smile sweetly for the camera.   We then send those pictures out to friends and family so they can turn seven shades of green at how adorable and well-behaved our children are seem to be.


Last year's photo session was an adventure.  This year, I decided to cut to the chase and go straight for the (for lack of a better term) money shot.  
 

Hm...nice, but...That wasn't good enough for me. In my quest for Teh Funneh, my Christmas Brain blocked out the mayhem that clouded the lens of last year's photo and we kept right on truckin'.



I got a few decent shots, before their body language began to speak to me, "Dear, sweet woman, we know what you want and we're trying our best to make it happen for you, but someone WILL get hurt if we have to do this much longer."


Again, the holiday photo became a battle.  It wasn't quite the Clash of Titans that we've had in the past, but it was definitely a war between What I Wanted and What I Got.  







 This is what we ended up with:  





To say "next year I won't bother" would be an outright lie.  You know damned well I will!    
 

Friday, November 25, 2011

I repost because I care...and because I can.

It's Black Friday, people. 
If you're one of the many insane people out and about today, you'll miss this reposting.  Be safe.  Remember how to hip check properly and protect your faces.

Black and Blue Friday - a poem

Twas the dawn of Black Friday, and in front of the store,
The people had camped out all night by the door,
Their bottoms were nestled in frozen lawn chairs,
As they peered through the glass, plotting what would be theirs.
The veteran shoppers were dressed for the weather
Eyeing new blood, as they huddled together,
When toward the glass doors an employee came near,
With a key in his hand and his face filled with fear
They watched him approach, with their eyes opened wide
He unlocked the door and then leaped to the side.
Like antelope, torn from their watering hole fun,
When the lion creeps nearer, break into full run,
So into the store the patrons did dash,
With lists miles long and buttloads of cash.
More rapid than eagles, they grabbed at Wii Games
They pushed, kicked and called one another foul names.
The Black Friday shoppers went straight to their works,
They prided themselves on behaving like jerks.
They said, "Puck your mother!" (or words of that sort)
As shopping became a full-contact sport!
Black Friday peeps, know this as you roam-
You're fighting without me, I'm staying at home!

Saturday, November 19, 2011

You want a piece of me?!

When I'm feeling punchy, I'm going to start my shopping at 6 PM on a weekday.  I bet I could kick some ass.  My fellow shoppers are clearly not happy to be there.  They're tired and hungry but they're also armed with metal carts...like Battlebots.  

I'll fill mine with canned goods and garden tools.  

Awesome.

Some Other Stuff I Wrote